No Attachments
by herRhi-chan
Summary: Ichigo has never felt the normality that others have. He can not handle crowds, emotions, or people. The painful feelings of attachment twinge at him when he comes upon the almost-murder of a mysterious pale teen. Slightly darker than my usual diction.
1. Chapter 1

I hope you enjoy this, it is a bit more serious than my previous fictions

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Megawatt lights, obnoxious voices, and blaring shrieks of music bombarded Ichigo's eyes and ears. The sickening smell of deep-fried powdered sugar and vomit from the rides made him want to hurl. In general, he hated going out anywhere the populous was, for his senses were hyperactive, and everything was incredibly loud and overwhelming. So, naturally, the worst place he could've been dragged (kicking and screaming, I might add) would be the carnival.  
He'd been dragged from the quiet, dark confines of his room by an overenthusiastic father, and a shiny-eyed Yuzu. The dark scowl on his face did little to ward them off, and Karin's expression was little better than his... The mood dropped even lower after he had had to pull his hood up to keep from being annoyed by Keigo.

Currently, he was seated between an equally pissed off Karin, and a squealing, slightly green, Yuzu. The lights alone could induce an epileptic seizure, and the spinning, quaking of the ride told the orange-head exactly why his seat smelled like sick.

He closed his eyes, willing the suffering to end...it was not that he couldn't tolerate the ride- oh no, he quite enjoyed the violent thrashing about and twirling upside down-, but the agoraphobic side of him (that which gave him the hyperactive sensitivity) was forcing more adrenaline through him than really necessary, and he was going to be sick from the thought of how many people were surrounding him, and how bright and just plain obnoxiously loud everything was.

When the retreat from the crowds ended, he opened his eyes, and walked his sisters off the ride to a happily cry-squealing Isshin, spouting something about how grown up his little girls were... The happy (excluding Karin) group ran off towards the other end of the fair, and Ichigo took that as his cue for a break from humanity.

He avoided touching people, and pulled his hood up close, as he made his way to a near-by building the Carnies had set up close to. He found the fire escape and scaled it, far too used to doing the same within the city. He sighed as he reached the top, and perched on the rim of the building, laying on his back.  
The orange-head pulled a cigarette stub from his pocket, lighting up, and taking a long calm drag, holding in the smoke, before breathing out a relieved, smoggy sigh. He didn't smoke routinely, just when he needed to calm down, take chill pill- so to speak- and feel the endorphins calm his mind from the anxiety of being around people.  
He really could not stand being around large groups of people...and socializing was incredibly awkward...it was preferable just to be on his own most of the time.

When he reached the point of being mildly dazed, he rubbed out the nub, shoving it deep into his pockets.

Ichigo climbed back down the fire escape, jumping the last few rungs, and turned his head back to the lights of horror. As he started walking, a loud, angry, slurred voice irritated his ears,

"Y-yeww" the man (he assumed, unless it was a very deep-voiced woman) hicced, and slammed something down hard against...something, "fuh-er-ckin sonuva beetch" (fucking son of a bitch in drunken-slur-speak-a language I know well) Ichigo could tell, even with his lack in experience of human emotions and empathy, that the man was angry...and probably confused.

_'As is most of humanity these days...and any other set of days...'_

Just the drunken accent hurt the orange-head's ears, making him want to hit something. Then, his hypersensitive eardrum was shattered, as he heard something glass break and a grunt. He quickened his pace, now feeling unfamiliar concernment with whoever was on the receiving end of that.

The teen creeped up on the scene of a rather ugly, huge man...who was obviously disoriented and filled with drunken rage. In his meaty red hand, he held the neck of a broken glass bottle.

The heated aura of a damning hatred was emanating from someone out of view, whom Ichigo guessing the drunken man was slurredly screaming at. He glimpsed a pale, with black adorned nails, chipping off, and rather grimy. A different voice, the one of the other person he assumed, starting yelling at just as loud a decibel, though considerably less intoxicated, "I did'n' do anythin'! 'onest!"

The pale handed person's voice was high-pitched, and agitated, fluctuating between a growl and a shriek... although normally, something like this would've given Ichigo a migraine with his over-sensitive senses, it seemed ironically soothing...almost...in a weird way.

" –'ll teach ya ta-" hic" to...-" without finishing the though, the huge man swung his fist- still clenching the bottle- at the pale teen. Just as glass was about to collide with skin, the pale kid jumped out of the way, landing a kick to the drunken man's gut, and swearing profusely.

The orange head just watched with mild fixation, as his view of the paler teen was unobstructed; his fists were clenched tightly, the blue veins visible on his tight pale skin, and the black, skin-tight shirt accentuated his skinny form, the ribs visible, and giving him a sickly feminine curve. However, any thoughts of femininity from Ichigo were drowned out as the spiteful teen lashed out, grunting and throwing a punch, and a verbal insult,

"ya fuck'n' fat-ass, jus' you try...I'm sick o' yer damn bitchin' and hittin' all the time"

As he turned, he saw the vivid haired boy watching him, and winked, sparing a haughty smirk, as he just missed getting struck by sharp, jagged glass. Ichigo felt an odd sensation color his face, and a flare of mild guilt (because the albino had almost been hit while distracted leering at him).

"wha' is it this time, eh, Baraggan? Someone drink yer booze?" the pale teen glanced back at Ichigo, winking yet again, and biting his lip. Then, he turned sharply, hitting the man in the gut, pulling his arm back just in time to miss a cascade of beer laced vomit.

"sonuvabitch" a round of phlegm filled hacking coughs "- firs' ya mess with my son, an' now this, damn it '-Saki!"

"I tolja! I didn' do anythin' ta tha' asshole! He came onto m-"

"SHUT UP! ya drink my stuff, ya smoke my cigs, ya fuck with m'son, and ya mess with everythin'"

"ya're fergettin' who runs all o' this shit! Ya too damn drunk ta do any goddamn thing yerself!"

Ichigo felt confusion and awkwardness wash through him at being a third person to the argument. He pulled his hood closer and spun on his heel, away from the quarreling duo, but got no farther than a few feet before the yelling was stopped mid-swear by the undeniable squelching of glass in skin. He turned wide eyes to the two, and saw the younger falling from his knees to the ground face first, with blood streaming from the back of his neck. The angry booze-ridden man looked shocked and a shade paler from his burgundy red, and dropped the blood-tipped half-bottle, backing away from the unconscious body. Ichigo felt the mildest sense of horror twinge at him, and sprung into action as soon as the man labeled 'Baraggan' was out of sight. He flipped open his dinosaur cell-phone, and dialed his father's number, while putting a bit of pressure onto the bleeding.

How odd it was to just walk upon a potential murder scene, he thought. This was probably the first emotion –albeit one of mild horror- he'd felt in quite a while. The apathy went hand-in-hand with the agoraphobia (for him, anyway). The conversation was monotone with his father, on both ends; direct questions, simple one-word answers, just business.

Once his father reached the badly bleeding boy, he stepped back, taking notice of the gathering crowd. He could feel his nerves heat up, and his mind screaming at him to get away, to escape, or he'd smother... but he held his ground, fighting the feelings of an oncoming anxiety attack, and focused everything on the injured teen before him. He couldn't take his eyes off of him, something he'd never experienced before, the inability to pry his eyes away. Covered in blood, his pale skin looked even more exotic, staining his thin form, and the bit of taut stomach exposed from his hiked up shirt. There were small pink marks visible under the few smears of blood on his torso.

Bright red lights and sirens approached, finally driving Ichigo back to his senses, and away. He couldn't take the suffocating feeling any longer, and wished he'd thought to bring his hijacked inhaler (from the clinic of course). Paranoia gripped him, and he backed out of the mass of people, staring ahead, and making his way around the people.

Paramedics from the single ambulance that arrived reacted with bored sighs, _nothing exciting really _was clearly their shared expression. Ichigo watched his father climb into the back with them, already spewing directions, being the only clinic nearby, it was obvious as to where they were headed. Two familiar voices reached his ears, and he had already predicted that he would be driving his little sisters home tonight (as there was no room for anymore in the ambulance cab).

He blocked everything out as he drove. There was nothing but focus in his eyes, he would not slip up. There was no room for error...not again.  
Wthey reached the back of the Kurosaki clinic, everyone was automatic. The girls took their places, though there was not much t be done. The orange-head could hear some of wat was being said once the EMTs had gone. The glass had severed all the way trough an artery, and through a bit of muscle tissue, and had most likely caused a concussion.

Although the injury was not nearly as bad as it had seemed, his father had deemed it necessary to sedate the pale being and keep him over night on a close watch.

Only a slight concern for the boy's wellbeing arose in Ichigo's thoughts, pestering him like nothing before. He'd never felt any sort of emotion for a complete stranger. Once everyone had left the room the still-unconscious boy was resting in, he padded down the stairs. The lights were out, and he was alone in consciousness, a feeling I quite enjoyed. There were a few people, but none were near him, none were speaking to him...he had company, but was alone.

His bare feet shifted along the floor until he reached the door to one of the three exam rooms. He heard soft breathing and mutterings from within, and it aroused his sense of curiosity like never before. He had never made many connections with people, because it was too painful, the betrayal, of someone you grew close to. But this, this sudden onset of strange conflicting curiosity and interest- why would his screwed up mind decide now of all times was the time for friends?

He'd been thinking, with his eyes shut and back against the door, for the past fifteen minutes, many things running through his mind. The concern was overwhelming compared to the usual mild sense of any sort of emotion, and he felt the need to check on the pale teen, on his condition.

The door squeaked audibly, and he could see the sheets rise with every intake of breath.

"onii-chan? Why are you..." his youngest sister's tired, drawn voice took him form his reverie, and he pasted his trademark reassuring smile on his face,

"Just making sure the kid's alive, Yuz, go back to bed."

The yellow pajama-clad girl wandered back up the stairs sleepily, and Ichigo composed himself. No attachment, he thought. No-thing. He annunciated each syllable in his mind.

Tiredly, he carried himself back up to his room, taking a short breath from the inhaler he'd taken a few months ago, calming himself and filling his lungs completely. Then he took to the only escape from people; Sleep.

The nightmare was back, as it usually was this time of the year. Shiro was far used to it, and used to no sympathy or comfort. Somewhere, in his slightly awake subconscious, he knew what had happened, and his fear from the repercussions was engulfing him in his sleep, worsening his dream. He could never tell what the dream was entirely of, there was just the suffocating rush of fear, frustration, confusion, and pure anger.

The only time he'd felt this level of intensity of these emotions was at _that _time. He couldn't even name it, could not envision it any more. That, and his refusal to behave and take it, was what had landed him with the only option of running away with the Carnival. There was no paper trail, no one knew him, or his name. there was no threat of...being followed. He was safe...and now, after the final straw had been burnt, he was not.

And his subconscious was not going to allow him ANY time of peace.

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So, slightly more serious and 'darker' than my usual diction, so what do you think? Please tell me in a review. I truly love them.


	2. Chapter 2

Hahh, it's amazing how I can spit this out in about an hour, yet I've been attempting to write an essay on Paris for about a month now, and I have two whole sentences Y.Y

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Ichigo stayed long in his daze of sleep. At least, in his dream state, a place concentrated in darkness, and calming, numbing heat and cold (actually, he wasn't quite sure what the temperature was, just that it was…comforting, in a non-tangible way).  
He opened his eyes, expecting brightness from the window, and was surprised when his pupils dilated, to show him that light was scarce, and the sky was still blackish purple. Since he wasn't quite ready to get up and face the world, he did a most dangerous thing. He let his mind wander, although he did restrict it to the 'safe' thoughts, those that he could handle at the moment. The 'untainted'.

His fingers came across the small plastic lifeline in his sweat shirt pocket, his inhaler. Sure it wasn't prescription, and he may not have asthma, but it sure as hell calmed him in a panic attack. He was pretty sure his dad (his fajah :0) had noticed the occasional missing cartridge, but he hadn't said anything to him.

The little plastic box was one of the few things that could calm him down when he was out in the open…well, one of the things he could manage to do in public. One breath from it would augment his oxygen intake, giving him a slightly high feeling, breathing in deeply. Maybe not the best habit, but it made the outside okay, in a sense.

He continued to think, while descending the stairs.

_Toast_. _Toast is one of the most bland things_. _I think, if I were food, I'd be toast_ _on the outside, at least_.

If he thought about it, he did act like toast, always attempting invisibility via background blending… _Oh, and that works_ SO _well_..

Although, contrast to his outer façade, he was like the _anti-toast_ on the inside. Unlike most other people, he preferred to be known as toast, then as a fancy pop-tart, or whatever. No one had met his anti-toast. None were privy to that part of him.

The things outside of his own little world- no, he was not equipped to deal with. Dreams, his own false reality, that was where he lost himself. His dreams weren't about him, his world wasn't about him- don't get him wrong, he's not self-centered- just self-absorbed in thinking about..anything. He was a contemplating sort of guy.

His world- it was neither bright, nor dark,, you could see, yet there was nothing to see.

There was no sense of time, no lies in it, except that it was one. His imagined world dealt entirely in paradoxes. He was the 'center', he mattered, yet he was unimportant, and merely a watcher from within.

No one knew his secrets, however dark they were, and the people who weren't there understood him.

No sympathy, no apathy, just being. In the full sense of the verb.

And, while he had taken his time to create his world of sanctioned paradox, it was ever-growing, and consuming him with the ways that opposites went together. It was a collection of his thoughts- suddenly pulled from his reverie, he headed to _The Room_. He couldn't remember exactly what it was, but he knew he had to be there, go there. The path to the room he had to get to was dark, but he could see, and the hallway longer than he could see down… and, quite naturally, in two steps he was suddenly through the door… _What a Wonderland-like occurrence_

His eyes shut, he could see clearly what was in the room.

Atop a steel table, a gurney, there was a body. A pale, dirty, emaciated body. The figure was curved, with curves of the ribs and hips in the muscles showing, making the surely male body quite feminine. Pools of congealed blood had leaked out around the base of the neck, tinting the metal burgundy. Dried blood flaked around cuts and gashes on the face and chest, while deep crimson fluid seeped out rapidly from other wounds, making the whole scene beautifully gory. Pink scar tissue, and soon-to-be scars were in the place he'd glimpsed them last night when the pale teen's shirt had momentarily lifted, and it made him squeamish a bit.

An altogether strange feeling, and that made him laugh, the fact that, it wasn't the horribly disfigured, obviously dead, bloody corpse had made him flinch, but a handful of nasty cuts irrelevant to the death had made him squirm.

He laughed under his breath… and then regretted it as he took in the entire sight again.

He stepped closer to the body, fingering one of the deep gashes at the neck, which was bleeding freely, and tried to focus as his vision went blurry.

All at once, the swimming apathy, and dimmed emotions were absent. Horror beheld him, at the sinking in of the realization that this boy- he was dead. Then, confusion, disgust, and regret.  
And sadness. In the back of his mind, he added another pair of opposites.  
Apathy and sadness. for, truly, they were occupants of different spectrums.  
These were all newly unrecognizable things. He couldn't hear himself think in comprehensible words other than,_ " WHY?_ _What the hell?"_… Feeling returned to him, or rather the lack of it, and the blurred vision, tears he'd never shed, were eradicated. Honestly, he hadn't known whether or not he'd had the capability. Comprehension finally dawned, and everything became a suffocating black…

For not the first time in his life, he shot up breathing heavily, with bright light streaming through his window, his hands having ripped the blinds off, and managed to flip off the bed in a frenzy.  
It'd been a long time since he'd lost his composure, he sucked in as much hair as he could, searching frantically for his inhaler, and a cigarette. (Ironic, no?)

Once he lit up the last of the nub from the jacket pocket he'd fished it out of, he took a long drag. The smoke swirled around his face, settling on his clothes, and burning his eyes. He hated the smell of smokers, and the taste of the nicotine, but to his intensely sensed body, it a remedy to adrenaline rushes from fear.  
One last drag, and the nub was burnt to the filter. He relaxed in an upside down position against the bed.

Another druggish habit of his was Belladonna. While indeed deadly, he had figured over time, and after intensive research, the right dose to make his heart stop at first, then beat erratically, and come to another stop, before resuming the norm. The after-rush was what was all worth it. The exhaustion brought on the enjoyable high-inducing adrenalin endorphin. To him, it was humorous. He 'feared' and silenced his emotions, but intentionally brought on a chemical high. It was his 'moral' (legal) high.

So it was a bit sick, not direct pleasure, but it was a way to rid himself of the world…for a few seconds anyway…

"I have issues" he laughed genuinely to himself, getting up off the floor in a better (than normal) mood.

Curiosity struck him as he inched down the stair way, and he unconsciously-on-purpose, made his way towards the _room_ to feed it. (His curiosity)

=_=;;

Shiro had woken up in such an unfamiliar environment, something he hadn't been in for years. A bed. He was jolted by fear that, finally, his past had caught him, there was no more escape.

His fingers tightened into nervous fists, until he realized he wasn't bound- and comprehension dawned. He remembered- just vaguely- the fight with Barragon. The circumstances that left him in… and, a flash of the stand-off-ish, aloof, yet intriguing orange-headed teen who'd stood there.

His nose registered the sterile smell of cleaners, and he blinked his eyes open slowly. The value of white shocked his eyes.

Doing a simple two plus two, he figured he was in a hospital, or clinic of some sort. It was rather obvious to him, since he'd been hit hard enough to render him unconscious, and have rivers of blood pool down his face, that he would end up here.

After a few more minutes of scrutiny, everything finally sank in.  
He had no home, anymore. By now, no matter what time, they'd all abandoned (him). Carnies _DON'T_ stick around for long, especially if there's trouble (hell, that whole concept had been his reason for becoming one). So, now, on top of everything else, there was no reassuring hiding place for him. No safe haven..(however safe the life of a carnie had been)

If _they_ found him…if _they_ made him go back, he would die soon by _their_ hands, or his own.

To distract himself from his turmoil, he studied the IV needle in the crook of his arm. The contrast of his skin was morbidly humorous. It seemed, the phlebotomist, or whatever, had had to clean off his arm before inserting the needle. Two square inches were pure white, surrounded by grey. They grey fading parchment color was because of his forcibly general lack of hygiene; there really wasn't that much opportunity to shower with a life on the road, and the last shower jack-pot had been about a month ago.  
he reached a sticky, grimy hand up to his disheveled matted hair, and laughed bitterly.

No, he was anything _but_ spoiled.

He hadn't looked in a mirror in ages, and wondered if he might still look the same as he had last. Probably so, maybe thinner? Maybe, taller?

He perked his head at the sound of socked feet padding against the floor, quickly squeezing his eyes shut, just enough so he could see through his lashes.

He recognized the obnoxiously bright orange hair immediately. Hard to forget that.. _'and the face that goes with it' _

_Why would he be here?_ Something faint and ignorable muttered in the back of his consciousness. He _was_ under a bit of sedation, after all..

The expression he could read off the other boy looked like it didn't belong. The only expression he'd seen, had been one of withdrawn boredom. One the tan, mysterious teen wore well, so naturally _that_ belonged. The current theme painted on his face was one of concentration and horror…? Concern…?

He was too dazed to be sure

,'_', -Ichigo (angry Asian strawberry)

I was thinking deeply, trying to mask the lasting horror from my dream of death. Something about our meet, _him_, the boy, was concerns me, draws me in. It was different. As soon as I came through the door, I noticed the irregular, light breathing of a waking person, and mediocre fluttering eyelashes. _Those pale, ashy, long lashes_.. This told me A) the boy was attempting to hide the fact that he was awake, so, B) he knew that someone was coming. I know from self-experience, that this means he wants to be left alone, but going against my grain, I crush the courteous thoughts of leaving him in peace. If I can't be calm, then neither can the cause. Selfish?

Then came the hardest part. Starting up some form of verbal communication. The parts of my brain in charge of that hadn't been exercised in so long… a bolder, older part of me spoke against (and for) my will, "I know you're awake.." my own voice startled me at how hoarse it was. I felt isolation, and a feeling of difference swallow me.

I watched his face. It screwed up in some un-known expression, and he forced his eyes open… I met his eyes, and everything I'd ever built on, all my self-learned lessons on being withdrawn, and cold- it deserts me… And, I start. I start so violently, I almost trip. All this uncertainty and awkwardness..I don't know how to respond. I feel..exposed, naked under his imploring gaze. He's the first person who's made me feel so much as anything- positive, or negative. The awkwardness is unbearable.

"I don' bite, y'know" his voice is wavering, nearly as hoarse as mine. It is soothing, somehow…it re-immerses me in my normal state of mind.

})({

I wasn't irritated, or pissy about being called out on my shitty acting-contrarily, I was sort of relieved. My mind flashes back to last night, when I'd felt my shirt ride up –I was always conscious of what was and wasn't covered- to expose what was on my side and midriff, and nervously, I moved my hand, the one not stuck with a needle, to cover my stomach through my stretchy black shirt.

Right off the bat, I knew this boy was very observant, reserved, and deductive. His reaction when I opened my eyes was different, his body had stayed locked in place, but his eyes- _the soft, brown eyes_- had been like an inner-war.

",',"

Once again, I was bombarded by yet another emotion-awkwardness. What is it about this person that makes me a goddamn mood-ring? Anger. Embarrassment, however unnoticeable on the outside, swept through him, and he switched his focus outwardly. Onto the subject before him.

Apparently, the awkward silence was not just permeating himself, because the pale teen interjected, "So…why ya here?". I hadn't had time to assess how this conversation would go, and I wasn't expecting questions…

"Live here. Father's a doctor. Run's the clinic". My excessive lack of pronouns, and deflated voice do nothing to change his air of cockiness.

He raises his eyebrows at me.

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SO! They speak! Ichigo's a head-case, and Shiro's somebody with a haunted past, what next? (I vote flaming children and bloody Carebears..) I know it kind of just drops off, but there will be more! Promise!

Please Review..I'll give you Cyber-GingerAle :0 (Made from real gingers!)


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